


Writer's Month 2020 Prompt 9: Illness

by RiatheMai



Series: Writer's Month 2020 Prompts [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Good Parent John Winchester, Illness, Weechesters, Writer's Month 2020, Writing Prompt, chickenpox
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26452780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiatheMai/pseuds/RiatheMai
Summary: Writer's Month 2020 (August)‘This is to inform you that a student in your child’s class has been diagnosed with chickenpox.’John did not need this. Not now. Not ever. Then again, was there ever a good time to fish one of those letters out of your child’s schoolbag?
Series: Writer's Month 2020 Prompts [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1922179
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40
Collections: Writer's Month 2020





	Writer's Month 2020 Prompt 9: Illness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kellnire (Kailene)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kailene/gifts).



> AN1: I have missed writing WeeChester stories, and this prompt was just too perfect--especially when my BFF, Kellnire, put the bug in my ear to go with chicken pox. I'm giving her all the credit for the idea.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Chickenpox. _Great._ ”

John frisbeed the piece of paper onto the chipped and scuffed coffee table and dropped himself heavily onto the couch. He did not need this.

Not now.

Not ever.

Then again, was there ever a _good_ time to fish one of those letters out of your child’s schoolbag?

_‘This is to inform you that a student in your child’s class has been diagnosed with chickenpox.’_

Sometime John really felt like he’d picked up an unlucky penny somewhere, and it just kept kicking him in the teeth.

“What’s chicken pucks?” Sammy asked. “Is that like chicken nuggets? I like them. Can we have them for dinner?”

“No, stupid,” Dean answered. “Chicken ‘pox’. It’s a disease where you get all these spots all over you.”

“’m not stupid,” Sammy protested. “ _That’s_ stupid. Where is the chicken?”

“The chicken is what you turn into!”

Sammy’s squeal went straight through John’s skull like a hot poker.

“Boys!” he said sternly, and they both fell silent.

They’d only been in town a week. Dean had only been in that classroom for 4 days. Maybe…

~~~

Yup. There was definitely a bad penny in John’s pocket.

“I’m itchy.”

“I know, Sport,” John sighed. “Try not to scratch.”

It had been an easy thing to dismiss the first few dots that had appeared on Dean’s cheeks yesterday morning. He and Sammy had been playing on the beat-up swing set behind their latest motel the night before and the mosquitos had been brutal. There was no dismissing _this_ : Dean was covered, his face, his torso, his arms, and his legs.

John carefully pulled the long-sleeved tee-shirt over Dean’s head and worked his hands through the sleeves. Maybe if he covered the places Dean could reach, he wouldn’t be able to scratch and make things worse.

Or not.

As soon as John let him go, Dean started squirming and pulling on his clothes. “Don’t do that.”

“But, I’m itchy.”

No, there was no dismissing the truth: Dean had chickenpox. John didn’t need a doctor to tell him that. There was nothing a doctor could do about it, and John didn’t need their scrutiny on top of everything else. He _was_ going to need to make a trip to a drug store, though. He had nothing in his first aid kit for something like this.

“Alright. Keep an eye on your brother while I run to the drug store. Do not leave this room and do not open this door for any reason until I get back. Understand?”

Dean nodded solemnly, reaching up to scratch at his face.

“And don’t scratch.”

Dean dropped his hand back down by his side like a Private snapping at attention, though John could see him straining _not_ to start squirming again. He put his hand on Dean’s head in sympathy—the only place he dared touch him where it might not set him to scratching again. He then grabbed his keys off the table.

Sammy looked up at him from where he sat on the floor, a coloring book and crayons they’d found on a shelf in the room between his stretched-out legs.

“Sammy, I’m going to store for supplies,” John told him. “You listen to Dean. He’s in charge until I get back.”

Sammy blinked up at him, then looked at Dean. “You get stuff so Dean don’t itch?”

“Yes, Sammy. You be good.”

The four-year-old nodded. John gave Dean one more glance, biting back yet another admonishment not to scratch, then left.

~~~~~

Dean lasted a ten-count after he heard the rumble of the engine as Dad started the car and the crunch of its tires as he drove out of the parking lot, before his fingers went to his arm. He just couldn’t help it. He was just so itchy.

Like, all over. His face. His chest. His arms and legs. His _back_ where he couldn’t even reach!

Dad didn’t say so, but Dean wasn’t stupid. He’d seen what Stevie Sawyer had looked like the day before the teacher had sent that letter home in his schoolbag. His face had been covered in spots, just like Dean’s was now. Chickenpox, the letter had said.

Stupid Stevie Sawyer had given him Chickenpox!

For a second, he thought he might start crying. It was so unfair. He hadn’t even wanted to go to that stupid school for only four stupid days.

“Dee, Daddy says don’t scratch,” Sammy said from across the room, and Dean almost told him to shut up.

“I’m not,” he lied instead.

He went over to his bed and threw himself down onto the mattress. He rolled onto his back and stared angrily up at the ceiling. How long was this going to last? A few days? Weeks? Was he going to itch like this the whole time? Was it going to get worse? Once again, he felt his eyes start to sting. If he ever saw Stevie Sawyer again, he was going to punch him.

“Dee?”

“Not now, Sammy.” He heard Sammy sniffle, and turned his head to look at him. As he watched, Sammy’s eyes filled with tears. “Why are _you_ crying?”

“Are you gonna turn into a chicken?”

“What?”

Sammy sniffed again. “You said the chicken spots make you turn into a chicken. And, I don’t want you to be a chicken.”

And with that, he started to cry.

Dean forgot all about being itchy. He hated when Sammy cried, especially when it was his fault. He pushed himself off the bed and went over to his brother, kneeling down beside him. “I was only joking when I said that, Sammy. I’m not going to turn into a chicken.”

“You’re not?”

“No, silly. Chickenpox just makes you really itchy.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, Sammy. I promise.”

~~~~~

John shifted the bag from the drug store to his left hand and turned the key in the room door with his other. He pushed the door open and stepped through and froze in the doorway. Dean and Sammy were sitting side by side on Dean’s bed, one of Dean’s comic books open across their laps.

His first instinct was to tell Sammy to get away from his brother. He didn’t need Sammy getting chickenpox too, but then he realized that it was probably already too late to prevent it. He pushed the door closed behind him and turned the lock, then set the bag of oatmeal bath powder and Calamine lotion down on the table.

This was going to be an interesting couple of weeks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


End file.
